I was recently asked by the publishers of Qatar airlines to write about my favourite street in Geneva for their in-flight magazine.  This was the equivalent of asking a duck to take a swim and of course, I over-ran on the word count.  Apart from the enormous pleasure, writing it churned up quite a few memories of my first years in Geneva living in my tiny flat in the old town and listening to all the alien sounds of life echoing through the inner courtyard.  Life  in a european city in those early days, as opposed to my previous life in the countryside of England, was exciting and enthralling (the price for being an expat came later).  I miss it, I miss the friends I made – old friends and all that means – and I am lucky that it will always remain a home but I am, undeniably, happier here in London back “home”.

http://www.agencyfish.com/Oryx_Magazine_April2012/

And this from a mother who thinks that unfurling her arm to turn off the alarm in the morning is exercise.  Ever since I watched that recent BBC Horizon documentary on exercise which proved that 20% of humans are non-responders, it all became clear why Mr. Jules can go to one session at the gym and return looking like Arnie the Filandering Austrian and I come back exhausted and flabby.  It is very unfair and disheartening to be married to a super-responder parading his toned body fresh from the shower  and droning on and on about the benefits of exercise.  He poo-poos the Horizon documentary so in desperation I shout “I’m an estrogen bomb okay?!” (That old chestnut).  I don’t care, I’m just happy that someone has finally recognized us 20 percent-ers.  I now know why I have never, ever, in all my years of jogging, experienced a runners high and why after a year of intensive yoga teacher training I did not get a much wished for six pack or even a one pack.

My idea of a great day is spent in bed with my laptop doing a spot of writing, then perhaps some light reading followed by a doze.

Alexia and Ronnie

Mr. J. is having his portrait painted.

Today he had lunch with the artist at The Chelsea Arts Club.

“Don’t you think it would be nice if we were both in the painting?”

“No…You can get your own done.”

“It would be  nice for the children to have a painting of both of us.”

Silence.

Yesterday we were all on top form.  A reading from a long skirted, hippy girl with profanity and street language evoked this exchange with the twin-setted, pearl wearing, well-to-do matron besides her.

“Sorry but what’s a Jägerbomb?” Enquired the Silk Scarf.

“A shot.”  Replied the Hippy.

“It’s like a G&T.” From across the room.

Silence.

“Without the pearls.”

Then too soon it is Monday afternoon and I am at City Lit in Covent Garden squirming under the eagle eye of Steve Bradfield who can spot a switch of Point of View before we even take our work out of our bags.   If, as one writer dared, you feebly put up your hand to ask a question or attempt to add to the discussion he says “No you cannot, just listen”.  We do not eat mandarins.

“He’s really good this term,” said a fellow writer as I was making a hasty exit after the first session.

“Really?”  I said sidling past, my eye on the door.

“Oh yes, he was shouting a lot last term.”

I’m already petrified and am unusually quiet for me, head down, concentrating.  Each of us in turn read out the pieces that we work on at home.  For some reason, and I thank whoever it is in heaven who is looking out for me, he passes me by.  Other writers have read at least twice.  Each week I hurry home for another week of frantic editing.

This is a little piece I wrote for last week’s class – How My Parents Met - which I am happy to share with you but for god’s sake don’t  let Steve Bradfield see it.

My mother wore glasses as a teenager but not when she went out dancing.  She stayed close to the wall and her girlfriends informed her, in whispers, whenever they noticed boys looking her way.  She would smile hesitantly across a blurred dance floor that separated the boys from the girls.  My father walked the length of the room in his new suit and Winklepickers to ask her to dance.  Her eyes may have been weak but she knew how to move to the ‘50s rock rhythm and so did my father.

When the band stopped playing, he enquired whether she would like a drink.  She knew it was sophisticated to ask for a gin and tonic but she asked instead for a bitter lemon.

“Bitter lemon?” he replied incredulously.

He pronounced the word “bitter” without sharp sounding “t”s  but she liked a man who could dance, even if he was a cockney.  He took her hand as he led her away from the dance floor and she wondered if  this was a man who wouldn’t mind about her glasses.

Years and two children later, they still rocked together at parties or in the kitchen when one of “their” songs came on the radio.  My father would lead my mother by the hand, all the time watching her face, confidently turning her and reeling her in and out to the beat.